Walkabout
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Sherlock awakens outside of London, with no memory of how he arrived there. [Hollowverse]


**A/N:** This story follows "The Hollow Woman" and will eventually not make sense if you haven't read that.

* * *

Stars, spun like a spiral of illuminated insects, pulsing with the beat of his breath – inhalation: nearer, exhalation: further. Dark-bright sky unfamiliar in its clarity, cut with jagged outlines, fading to complete black with a soft surrender stealing over him–

_No_.

Swimming against comforting oblivion, each breath a desperate stab, scrambling for purchase on a sheer, slick surface. The stars had shifted – were shifting, back and forth, a slow volley that wasn't dizziness but that _caused_ dizziness and he gulped for air, head tipped back – _wrong way, should be forward _– to fight it, trying to land a fading, erratic focus on the solid, the known, the familiar.

Images drained away leaving nothing, shadow too dark for starlight to elucidate. Eyes were forced open but had never closed – this blackness wasn't his own. Shadows had to delineate but it was black on black on black and so much effort to find meaning.

_Don't. No._

Fingers crept like little spiders, seeking what eyes could not see, but this was wrong. Constricted. A cage of fleece and leather where there needn't be, robbed of the expected slide of fine cotton and warm skin. He ventured further, breath caught in his chest, half aware of the dreams that stole his nights had felt like this but had never _been_ like this.

Lungs demanded oxygen and he sucked in a sharp, frantic breath, holding it again. A growl, a low reverberating hum dripping with malice shot through him like ice, like adrenaline, screaming at the flight response to push him up, to get him out, to hide him, but he succeeded in nothing. Pain up his spine, in his right shoulder where it contacted the ground.

_Wrong._ A low tenor of wind, not the snarl of monsters. _He_ was wrong. Not hunted by men or hounds born of imagination and terror, but he wasn't the only wrong thing. The brush of the wind, a breeze stirring over exposed skin and tangled hair, burned off some of the haze.

Exhale again and _stop_._ Just breathe._ Focus – it was both easier and more difficult with confusion substituting itself for – itself. Other, different confusion. Eyes screwed shut, trying to concentrate. Pain – sudden, demanding, as if it had been there all along but had only now pounced like the hound, prowling the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike, and he set his jaw against the scream of nerves, tilting his head back again, forcing in oxygen through gritted teeth.

_John_, he thought, or said. It was a word – _the_ word, _the _name – that always came, whether for confirmation or clarification or reassurance or simply for attention.

No answer. John would answer, if John were there. If he _could_ answer. Fingers quested again, moving over the uneven surface, information muted and lost by the glove's protection. _Home_ – the textures and temperatures he expected warred with what he was receiving, details superimposed on one another, mixed up until they became one pattern and he had to stop, pressing an open palm against the floor until he could pick them apart, one by one.

Not floor, ground. Too uneven, organic, unyielding, like dirt, and jagged with pebbles. The bed – his bed, _their_ bed – was soft, inviting. Eyes drifted shut again, cold evaporating as sensation gave way to memory and he could feel it now, the clean warmth deepened by another body curled up against his. Lips twitched into a smile, head tilting to seek that familiar presence, searching for reassurance, contact.

Aching muscles protested, a jab of pain pulling him back with a groan that was barely contained by cold lips. Fumbling leather fingers worked their way over thick wool to expose skin, feeling nothing. Teeth managed to find fingertips, tugging until the glove came off and cold air made digits numb as they worked toward an answer. Mark on the neck, small, circular. Needle.

_No._

But there were the memories – so many of them, the bite of a rubber strap, teeth tugging one end to cut the bind more deeply into his bicep. Veins on the soft inner surface of the elbow jumping out, begging for the needle that slipped in so easily, his body singing when it hit his bloodstream with a jolt of ecstasy and he wanted to shake his head, to deny it all, because he'd made a promise to himself for John–

John with his healing, careful fingers cleaning wounds, making small, precise stitches, wrapping bandages securely but never too tightly. How could a man with such calloused hands be so nimble, so gentle? How could he fail, face the pre-determined end of sterile floors and neutral walls and arm restraints and faceless nurses and John's disappointment that was like a sledgehammer crushing his rib cage – all for one moment, one brief soaring moment now lost–

_Wrong!_

Not lost because it had never been. _This_ wasn't cocaine. _Not in the neck, you stupid man_. The wrong place, the wrong outcome.

_It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends._

_Shut up. Go away._

Sherlock forced his eyes open. Reluctant responses. Sluggish. Inconsistent observations. Needle to the neck. Drugged. He needed to think. He needed data.

But his data were wrong. All the details he'd cultivated were useless. Home was gone.

No. Home was still there, he just wasn't in it. And if he wasn't home, he had to be somewhere. _Stupid thought_, he told himself. But true. He was somewhere – somewhere he didn't know.

He could know it.

Hampered every step of the way – sleep seemed so appealing, so simple to drop back down and wait until slumber had burned away the rest of the muddled mist and thinking _would_ be soaring, like cocaine but without any drugs, everything so clear, refracting light like perfect crystal–

The light was wrong. Stars splashed across the sky like glittering droplets of water, so bright and numerous it made him dizzy again and he closed his eyes, seeing notes and scales in the darkness, superimposed on the fading afterimage of the stars. A deep breath, two, steadied him until he was able to slit his eyes open, glaring at the sky, daring it to try again. Pupils dilated, adjusting to the feeble, incomplete light, the shadows overhead beginning to define themselves into a structure, only weakly perceptible in its outlines, but _real_.

Hemmed in by four walls, but it was too cold; he was inside and outside at the same time, the ruin of a small stone building incompletely encasing him. Above him a bit of roof missing, to one side, an open door, rotted wood just visible in the starlight, grass growing over the threshold, shivering in the cold night breeze.

The freed hand dropped from his neck, moving across the nearly frozen ground, gathering its own data as his eyes kept track of the lines and shadows above him. A smear of earth crushed between thumb and forefinger – slick hint of clay, the grasping scratch of tiny pebbles. Soil, dirt. No flooring between him and the ground – house ruined above and below. The floors at Baker Street came back, a memory beneath his skin, smooth and clean (mostly), hard except where rugs overlay varnished wood, the scratch of wool carpet on bare feet when he roused himself from bed–

_Stop it_, he told himself, sucking in another deep breath. Air pure and crisp, none of the smells associated with London, with _home._ Home meant petrol exhaust and pavement and damp air and John. Above all else _John._ A mix of familiar scents: soap, shaving foam, sweat, food, sleep, sex.

No smell of John now. No smell of anything. The air was too clean, as if it couldn't hold any scent.

Or sound. The wind was distant, forlorn. Touching him but only glancing, as if he were too small – too insignificant – to be bothered with. The sound of _space_ sucking out all the other sounds, robbing him of _London_ with its traffic and cutting sirens, with its shouts of laughter and anger, the babble of voices that drown into one, the distant, overhead drone of aeroplanes that linked the rest of the world to _home._

Not home. This had been someone's once. Not now. Never his. Home was out there, still standing, an empty house void of occupants, expectant of a return that couldn't happen, not from here, not without data.

Except for John. Unless John was there.

Cold sweat sprung up on his skin, torn away by the breeze, making him shudder. _John_. Sherlock caught his breath again, listening hard. No other breathing as a counterpoint to his. No sound by the wind rippling through unseen grasses, disturbing the small thatch near the absent door.

He needed to find John. He had been– he had been with John, just a moment ago, so close he could touch it if he reached out, but when he tried to, an aching shoulder protested and he was met with nothing more than cold night air.

Echoes of shouts against solid walls, the reverberation through his muscles as he ran, shod feet pounding on hard pavement. Voices behind him – John, Lestrade.

He should be in the city. He _had_ been in the city, giving chase, so close and then–

Nothing.

There was a gap there; he could sidle around it, nearly see it, begin to define its fuzzy boundaries but when he reached for the memories that should have lain inside, he found nothing at all. No hints, no sounds, no sensation, no pain, no surprise. Just nothing. There was only blackness between when he'd been running, adrenaline surging – _so close_ – and this cold night with too many stars and nothing familiar about it.

_Up_, he told himself. _Get up._ More reluctance, body shirking from dizziness and the possibility of nausea, but nothing could be accomplished by lying here. A searching hand found the wall, bared fingertips brushing bare stone, smoothing over uneven, jagged edges. The other hand – still gloved – and feet pushed him toward the wall, using it as leverage to get into a sitting position. Slumped more than anything, in the corner, head tipping back, almost lazily, of its own accord.

Less vulnerable this way, but unprepared. He needed to get _up_. All the way. Legs drew to his chest, lectures from John about checking for injuries made themselves known. Unwillingly, Sherlock pulled off his other glove, shoving them both into deep coat pockets. He needed data, and he needed resources. Everything he could find or keep.

Fingertips gave him new data, skirting over the mark on his neck, skimming over limbs, pressing into joints. Muscle pain seemed to be the worst of it – no warning flares along bones, no sticky gashes from cuts. A tender spot on the back of his head – struck most likely. Before the needle.

_Good_, he told himself. John would be pleased. It was suddenly immensely important, a conviction like a stubborn belief that wouldn't be shaken. A _need_, not just a desire. He had done this one thing, and John would be pleased. He had valuable data that John had taught him to collect.

Fingers curled, cold, and Sherlock fumbled his gloves back on, sucking in a deep breath against inexplicable – _that's a lie, it's the drugs, it's not just the drugs _– emotion that made him want to curl up, give up. The sound of the wind scouring an open space mocked him. He was alone. He'd been with John, and now he was alone. He had been alone for nine months, but he'd known where John was, back at Baker Street, waiting without knowing he was waiting and _that's where he is now_, Sherlock told himself firmly. He had to believe something. Without the right data, he might as well believe a lie.

Hands and arms were pressed into the stone, feet pushing against the unyielding ground to leverage himself to standing. Sherlock dropped his head forward, breathing deeply, waiting for the momentary dizziness to fade. Weakness clung to him. Not just the drugs – dehydration and hunger. They could wait. They had to.

They always had before.

The wall was an ally, supporting him, giving him the time he needed. Adjustment was slow, seconds crawling by as he shifted himself in tiny increments, straightening long legs, steadying himself to see if they'd take his weight. Shaky muscles, tired from too much use followed by a sudden cessation.

But he was upright. _One step at a time_, he told himself with a humourless quirk of the lips. The remains of the house provided some shelter. A defensible position – maybe. Hands slipped into pockets, searching for more advantage, stung by the lack of familiar rectangular weights. No phone. No wallet. Fingers curled around his hand lens.

It was something, at least. It wouldn't work here, in this too-bright starlight that was still somehow too dark, but it would work with the sun. A fire for warmth – and for contact.

_Mycroft_. Of course. Mycroft. His brother would be looking at the first suggestion of a mishap. Probably already was. He could wait. Stay in one spot. Make it visible. The morning would bring more information, more possibilities and–

The faint sound of footsteps. His heart shuddered, superimposing the soft footfalls of an enormous, stalking hound – but these weren't as gracefully sly. Artificial. Shod.

Someone else, just outside.

Steps hesitant and uneven. Not moving toward him – but he wasn't alone, in this ruined house. Drugged. Vulnerable. Someone had brought him here. Robbed him of the memories of how. Never bothered with the why.

He listened for a familiar pattern but couldn't find it. Not John. Disappointment ignored, he exhaled slowly, moving toward the door, back against the wall, concentrating. Every scrape of rock through his coat and gloves accentuated the ache in his muscles, the pounding of his pulse that his attacker sure must be able to hear but obviously could not. He had to be careful – the disadvantages were too many, but he wouldn't wait to be taken unawares. Not again.

The footsteps came closer, oh so slowly, nearly drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. but when he saw the length of a shadow, he drained resources he didn't have, and leapt.

They went down hard, Sherlock's hand over the other's mouth, a hard puff of air against his palm as the body underneath him hit the ground and took his weight, struggling against him despite the shock. He pinned the frantic arms with his knees, pinching the nose to restrict breathing – a warning, a threat. His captive tried to knee him; Sherlock leaned forward, dodging the clumsy attempt at a blow, pressing harder with his hand.

"Shut up!" he hissed and the body beneath his tensed then went slack, eyes widening, picking up the starlight as a shocked glimmer. He heard a word beneath his hand, muffled and nearly indistinct but just recognizable as his name. Sherlock froze, trying to make out the features of the face – it wasn't John, the height was wrong, it wasn't his smell or the way he felt – but he was kneeling too close to see, casting dark shadows.

Sherlock withdrew somewhat, trying for more light, easing up with his hand when his captive lay still, giving a slight nod.

"Bloody hell," the other man wheezed. "Sherlock?"

"_Lestrade?_"


End file.
